


Off the Beaten Path

by Joanjun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Cowboy AU, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-13 19:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20179882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanjun/pseuds/Joanjun
Summary: While fleeing with a group of rescuees, Sam and Dean cross paths with a wandering preacher named Castiel out in the wild. On their journey to safety, Dean is drawn to Cas despite his initial doubts, and has to battle his reluctance to face himself and his sentiments.(Basically a Cowboy AU involving horse riding, cowboy hats, “howdy partner”s, sleeping in tents and sensual fishing)





	1. Chapter 1

“Shh.... it’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” Dean murmurs soothingly.

The horse neighs violently as she swings her mane, causing him to take a cautious leap backwards. Although not afraid per say, having had Impala at his side for a few years now, his rational side still tells him she’s a five-hundred-pound beast who could easily crush him if she wanted to do.

After giving her minute to cool down, Dean approaches her side carefully again and places a palm on her shoulder in a calming gesture. It seems to do the trick, as her flailing subdues under his touch.

He combs her coat gently, sweeping off patches of dried mud as his fingers come across them. 

In this still clearing, merely occupied by a rider, his loyal horse and wiry threads of dry grass, Dean feels like he can finally breathe freely again.

The past few weeks had been a sludge covered nightmare. Ever since leaving the barn, they’d ridden relentlessly, only stopping at nightfall to set up camp and setting off at the first light. Every mile they put between that place and themselves made them breathe out a sigh of relief, but their rhythm was a punishing one bound to give out eventually. 

Unlike Sam and himself, the rest of their group weren’t seasoned riders. Hell, even if they had been, there weren’t enough horses around to even put up a proper circus show. They’d gone in a hurry, only grabbing what their eyes could see and their hands could reach. That’s just how it was, and they’d have to make it work somehow. If they had to share seven horses among twenty people or so, then so be it. Dean had grown up being taught you couldn’t change the cards you got dealt with and he’d resigned himself to it a long time ago.

But these past few weeks... They’d trudged through swamps, endured mosquito bites, snakebites and a close call with the jaws of a gator, and gone nights without a fire because of the goddam humidity. All that on a few hours’ worth of sleep and disgusting tinned fruits.

They were reaching the end of the rope and they could all feel it. Even Sam’s non-stop optimism was beginning to falter under all they’d been through.

“Is it just me, or did I hear you talking to your horse?”

Speak of the devil.

“You know what they say about fellas who hear voices, Sammy.” Dean swings his head briefly to see his brother emerge from the brittle shrubbery, long strands of hair falling in front of his eyes and a small smirk playing on his lips.

With that luscious hair to protect himself from the summer’s end sun, wearing a hat like Dean’s would just be redundant. But like his brother, he sports a weathered pair of jeans, frayed at the ends and torn at the knees. They’re a bit too loose-fitting to Dean’s liking and same goes for his blue cotton shirt hanging limply on his collarbones.

“And what do they say about people who talk to horses, Dean?” Sam retorts playfully as he treads his way through the long grass to reach his side.

Dean brushes his fingers through Impala’s mane softly. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Sam snickers behind him, bringing a brief smile to his lips.

Dean takes a long breath. “So what does Bobby think?”

“He says there’s an old abandoned fort not too far away.”

“What’s ‘not too far away’?”

Sam takes a second too long to reply. “About half-a-thousand miles, maybe.”

Dean runs a grimy hand through his hair, his nails scratching painfully against his scalp. He turns to Sam with a sigh. “Great. That’s what? At least three more weeks of grubbing. Three more weeks of these goddam canned peaches.” He paces feverishly as he goes on, “They’re way too freaking sweet, man. They were okay the first five days, but I swear, if I ever have to eat one them again, I’m gonna have to shoot a man, Sam.”

“I get it, Dean. Trust me, I do.” His tone hits him with a guilty pang. He sounds as tired as Dean feels. “But we don’t really have any options here. Nick’s men could be on our tail right now.”

Dean’s pacing comes to a stop, and his hands bury themselves in his pockets.

“We’ve never been this out east before. It’s giving me the jitters,” he admits.

“I don’t like it either.”

He shifts his weight, staring at the flattened strands of grass beneath him.

“Okay, tell you what.” He straightens up and looks at Sam. “Once we get these people to safety, we’re riding west until we hit sand.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He gives Dean a boyish grin and adds, “Until then, stop lazing around and come help us set up camp.”

Dean answers with a grin of his own. “Can do.” He whips around and grabs for Impala’s reins. “Come on, girl. Let’s get you some rest.”

\------------------------

Well, crap. What are they supposed to do now?

A seemingly impassable stretch of water gushes before Dean, Sam and Bobby, while the rest of their little posse busies itself resting and stretching a small distance behind, gladly taking this as a chance to rest. 

Dean had thought he’d heard the sound of rushing waters a while ago, expecting some kind of brook or a shallow river at worst, but not this. The water’s too murky to let the bottom peek through, probably not a good sign. The waters could be deeper than they look. Or strong currents might be causing the low visibility. Either way, it doesn’t look too good for them.

They can’t risk anyone getting washed away by the undertow, nor can they spare the food or horses.

“I guess we’ll have to follow it downstream until we find a safer place to cross,” Sam says to his right. As usual, the voice of reason. 

At his other side, Bobby uncrosses his arms and places them on his hips. “That’d be the smart move.”

That would also mean extra days to their journey. Days Dean doesn’t have the patience for.

“Screw it. I’m just gonna jump in.”

He figures he might as well test it. Judge how deep this thing really is for himself and hopefully give the a-okay to the others.

Bobby turns to him, a mixture of amazement and exasperation on his face. “And make us loose our best mark?”

“Wait. When did Dean become our best mark?”

Bobby ignores Sam’s affronted look, choosing to lock eyes with Dean instead. “If you think I’m dragging your sorry ass out of the water if you drown, then you’re a fool, boy.”

Dean inspects the waters again. Are there any gators on this side of the country? Whatever, it’s this or canned peaches and that’s not a really a choice at all.

He hands his gambler hat to Sam, refusing to let it gather dust on the ground, and prepares to unbutton his shirt when he notices a weird blob floating in the distance.

“What the hell is that?” he asks, nodding towards the shape getting closer to them.

Sam steps closer to the river bank. “Pretty sure that’s a who, Dean.”

Dean follows Sam, taking a few step forwards and squinting at the figure. From here, he can just about make out the silhouette of dark-haired man and a pair of arms cutting through the waters. 

He stands motionless as he stares incredulously at the man swim idly towards them, looking peaceful enough to be taking a relaxing afternoon dip.

Once the stranger reaches the bank, Sam bends forward and stretches out a hand to help him up on the ridge. The man reaches for it in a strong grip and swiftly climbs up to stand on solid ground with them.

They’re all speechless for a few seconds, before the soaked, half-naked stranger speaks up.

“Hello.”

“Hello?” Sam repeats, his brows rising. 

Dean is just as dumbfounded. Handsome, shirtless strangers don’t usually wander out of his fantasies. Especially ones with gorgeous blue eyes and messy wet curls.

The strangers’ eyes squint as his head cocks slightly to the side. “I’m sorry. Perhaps English isn’t your native tongue?”

Bobby huffs out a laugh. “Which star did you crash from, son?”

If possible, the stranger’s half-confused squint intensifies. “I’m not sure I understand,” he says in a gruff voice.

Sensing they’re not getting anywhere, Dean recovers and speaks up, “Who are you?”

The stranger’s eyes shift to him. “My name is Castiel. Though people sometimes like to call me Cas or Father.”

Dean tenses at the words. Sam seems to sense his wariness, as he shoots him a sidelong glance.

Unperturbed, Bobby asks, “You a preacher?”

“I am.” He pauses. “Or I used to be. Is a preacher still a preacher without a church?” he muses aloud, avoiding their eyes.

It’s clear he’s not saying everything, but something in his tone keeps Dean from pushing. 

“Give me my hat back, Sam,” he says a little brusquely. “And gimme your vest too.”

“Why do you-”

“Just give it.” Dean holds out his arm impatiently.

Sam sighs loudly but listens anyway.

Once his hat is back where it belongs, Dean slides the brim around until hearing that imaginary click.

Sam’s vest in hand, he turns to Cas. “Here, take this.” The other’s eyes widen in surprise. “You look like you’re about to turn blue any second now.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Though he looks slightly taken aback, he accepts it and covers himself gracefully.

With that done, Dean can think a little clearer now.

“I’m Dean. This is my brother, Sam. And that’s Bobby, our guide and honorary grandpa.”

Bobby huffs at his side. “You better watch what you say about that grandpa, Dean, or you might find yourself without a guide pretty soon.”

Dean cracks a smile while Sam extends a friendly hand to Cas. “It’s nice to meet you, Cas.”

He watches Cas smile humbly, seemingly touched by Sam’s gesture.

Dean clears his throat. “So you were taking a swim in there?” He nods towards the river.

“I was washing myself. But then it felt so nice and I... I must have gotten distracted,” he says, looking bashful.

Dean is silent, trying to size Cas up. What kind of man jumps into troubled waters and walks up to strangers? A reckless one would be his guess. 

Sam decides to take over. “Is it safe enough to cross? We need to get across and we can’t really afford to take a detour.”

Cas hums as he seems to consider it. “The current isn’t too strong. You shouldn’t have a problem crossing, it’s shallow enough. Although I would recommend holding the kids as a precaution.”

Sam nods to himself. “Okay, we can do that.” He pauses and asks, “You think you could give us a hand?”

Before Cas has a chance to reply, Dean grabs Sam’s shoulder brusquely. “Uh, Sam? A word?”

Sam lets himself be pushed away by his brother, while Dean shouts a “We’ll be right back!” over his shoulder.

\------------------------

“I thought we were done with preachers.”

Sam stares at Dean, his eyebrows arched.

“Look, I don’t know Cas,” Dean continues, “He seems like a nice guy. Maybe a bit weird, but nice. But we can’t go and trust every stranger we meet.”

Sam pushes his hair back impatiently and sighs deeply. “Dean, he came up to us, unarmed and undressed. He looked about ready to cry when you gave him my coat. Sure, we don’t know him. But he looks pretty harmless to me.”

He cuts off Dean as he opens his mouth again to argue. “And not all preachers act like Nick.” His breath hitches. “Some of them are good. For some of them, it’s not about the number of followers or how far they can push them before they break,” he finishes earnestly.

Dean swallows. There’s some truth to it but everything stills feel raw. Turning his attention away from Sam, he studies Cas standing a dozen meters away, listening intently to whatever Bobby is saying and nodding his head politely every few words or so. He looks harmless to Dean too. Especially in Sam’s oversized vest. 

Worst comes to worst; they could probably overpower him easily enough.

Dean smooths a hand over his stubble. He hopes he’s not going to regret this.

“Alright, you win.” Sam grins broadly. “But I’m warning you, one wrong move from him and I’m not firing any warning shots. 

Sam rolls his eyes. Sometimes, Dean swears he never grew up. “_Sure_, Dean.”

Their aside over, they make their way back to Cas and Bobby. Dean can feel eyes on their back, their group probably wondering about the hold-up and the water-emerging, pantless stranger talking to Bobby. 

As they draw closer, Sam tells Cas warmly, “We’d really appreciate the help, Cas.”

Trudging behind his brother, Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry, Cas. Just needed to sort something out.”

“It’s alright,” Cas responds softly, his eyes holding Dean’s. “There’s no need to explain. Bobby told me what happened.”

Dean’s not sure how to answer so he stays quiet.

Cas comes closer to him and lays a warm hand on his arm. Water is still dripping from his hair, pearling at the tips and landing softly on his cheeks before rolling down. “You did a good thing saving these people. I’m sure they must all be very thankful for your actions.” His hand slides off as he turns to Sam. “And yours too, Sam.”

Feeling his cheeks warm, Dean pulls down on the brim of his hat.

They should get moving soon.

\------------------------

They’re still on the road when night begins to fall. Wanting to make up for lost time, they’d decided to push on for a bit longer, even if travelling at sundown made them all feel a little uneasy. 

Their pace was slowing down but Dean wasn’t too worried. Despite the river hassle, they’d dealt with it surprisingly quick once Cas had given the go ahead. Everybody had rolled up their sleeves, grabbed the closest bag, horse or kid, and wet their feet without hesitation. 

Dean was proud of them. They would tough this out.

Any reservation he’d had about Cas had vanished when he’d watched him hoist a kid up on his shoulders and whinny like a horse while he carried her across.

Lucky for Cas, he doesn’t have to play horse anymore, and he’s happily sitting on top of Impala whereas Dean is stuck walking beside them.

“I like this horse,” Cas states out of the blue.

He’s arched forward, smoothing his palm from the spot behind her ears down her nape until his hand meets the saddle. His long beige coat, recovered by the creek where he’d left the rest of his clothes in a neat pile, hangs down loosely on both sides of the horse. Dean bites down on his lip. He’s not going to pretend it doesn’t do something to him.

“I think she likes you too, buddy.”

Cas’s face lights up. “You think so?”

Dean interrupts himself mid-nod with a loud yawn.

“We can switch back if you’re tired, Dean,” Cas offers. He’s a bit more polite than most strangers wandering these roads. 

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, shaking his head. “We’ll be stopping soon anyway.”

Cas doesn’t insist and they march in silence for a few minutes. They’re trailing behind the others but not by much. Dean gazes down below, where a colony of footsteps and hoof prints mark the soil.

He casts a look behind him and releases a breath when he’s greeted by nothing but empty, yellowing grassland. His eyes settle back on Cas.

“So, uh, tell me something about yourself, Cas.”

Castiel slides up effortlessly in his saddle, making the soft curve of his back disappear. “What would you like to know?”

Dean blinks. He hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. 

“Well, I told you I’m a preacher,” Cas starts helpfully. “So was my father. He taught me how to read with the Bible. Taught me how to ride too.” His brows furrow. “Although not very well.”

Deans grins. “Our dad taught me and Sam too. Taught us everything we know and then some.”

Cas smiles fondly. “He sounds like a good father.”

“Yeah, he was. In his own way, you know,” Dean says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “He’s the only reason Sam and me are able to make it out here.”

Cas doesn’t reply, his thumb absently rubbing the horse’ rising and falling shoulder blade, but Dean knows he’s listening.

“What about you. What’re you doing in the middle of nowhere?” Dean’s hands gesture vaguely at their surroundings. “Looking for a hot piece of land to hoist up your new house of the Lord?”

Dean’s grin drops when he notices Cas’s blank expression. His dad should have also taught him how to keep his mouth shut sometimes. 

Cas doesn’t give him a chance to apologize.

“I’m looking for the men who burned down my church,” he says impassively, staring ahead.

Dean stumbles over nothing. He recovers in an instant, but a weight settles firmly in his gut.

He turns to Cas with his brows creased, hoping this is simply another instance of him being weird. But his mouth is set in a hard line and he’s keeping quiet.

“You know, looking for someone in these backwoods is like plunging into a giant haystack, right?” Dean says lightly, trying to break the tension.

Cas finally looks at him blankly. “I know. I’m in no hurry.”

Something twists painfully inside Dean. He bites his lips. 

“And what happens if you do find them?” he asks, voice sounding harsher than he means.

“What do you think happens, Dean.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

Cas pulls on the reins and the horse stops treading as well. He waits for Dean to say something.

Dean fidgets in place. He doesn’t want to piss off Cas.

“I hate to burst your bubble, Cas. But you don’t really strike me as that type of man.”

Cas stares down at his hands in thought before looking back at Dean.

“You’re right. I’m not. And no one should be if they have the choice. But there are some people in this world who made the wrong choice willingly, because they find pleasure in it, or because they think they can gain something from it. And unless we do something to stop them, they’ll keep hurting good people, people who don’t deserve to be hurt. So yes, I’m not that type of man. But when I find them, I’ll be whatever I need to be to put an end to the suffering they cause.”

His shoulders sag as soon as the last word leaves him, but his jaw remains set, his knuckles tightly locked on the reins.

Dean opens his mouths, hesitates, and shuts it. He shakes his head uselessly and starts walking again.

Behind his back, he hears Cas spur on the horse and set after him, but he doesn’t catch up.

\------------------------

Pretty soon, the darkness becomes too thick a layer for them to see where they’re stepping, and Bobby calls it a day. They set up camp, prop up the tents and start a few fires, and it’s not long before a light-hearted chatter starts floating above slowly-heating pots. It’s become an effortless routine for them.

Tonight, the fires feel a little warmer and the tents a little more welcoming after their prolonged journey. Spirits are up thanks to the fish being cooked on improvised skewers; one of the good things that had come out that river. 

Like the brave man he is, Dean keeps a precautionary distance from Cas throughout most of the night. He hangs around Bobby and a few others instead, half-listening to old cowboy legends and exaggerated tales of damsels in distress.

With the number of stories Bobby is spinning, Dean swears he could give a conman a good run for his money.

“Did I ever tell you about the time with little Miss Jody back in ol’ Silverton?” Bobby half-slurs, following another swing of whiskey which ends with the jug getting slammed back onto the ground. The flush on his cheeks is hard to miss, made more crimson by the glowing fire, and he’s shouting instead of talking, plastering an amused smile on Dean’s face.

“And her sorry dog who got buried with a gold nugget inside? Yeah, go ahead.” He waves a hand at Bobby. “Only heard that one a couple hundred times.”

Years of knowing Dean have taught Bobby how to deal with his sass.

“Nothing’s stopping you from-”

“I wanna hear it!” interrupts a young auburn-haired woman called Charlie.

Dean softens when he looks at her glistening eyes. She’s the reason they’re all here, all safe. If she hadn’t warned Sam and him about Nick’s ‘ritual’... well, better not think about it too much. So who is he to ruin her fun?

“All right, let the girl have what she wants”. Dean raises his hands in surrender and makes an effort to get up, feeling his knees crack in protest. “Have fun you two,” he adds and turns away, eyes already scouring the camp for Sam. 

When he spots him, he freezes in his steps. His shoulders tense with some nervous feeling he can’t pinpoint at seeing his brother, leaned back comfortably against an oak tree, deep in conversation with Cas.

Before Dean can contemplate making a discrete retreat, Sam’s head whips towards him and he waves at him to join them. Left with little choice, Dean drags his feet in their direction, forcing his face into a neutral expression. 

“Hey. Where’ve you been?" 

There’s no hello from Cas’ side but Dean feels him steal a glance his way.

“Been trapped with Bobby all night.” He rolls his eyes as hard as can. “Only managed to escape now after he threatened to tell us all about Jody again.”

Sam gives a warm chuckle. “Come on, you’re being hard on him. You know it’s his favourite.”

“Trust me, I know,” Dean says, tossing his head back and lifting his eyes upward until the stars comes into view.

“Who’s Jody?” comes the curious but hesitant question.

Dean lets Sam reply.

“Oh. _Jody Mills. _She’s only the first person ever to beat Bobby at holding his liquor. Pretty impressive, really. You had to be there. By the time she was downing her fifteenth shot of moonshine, five guys were already passed out on the floor. Bobby included.” He smirks before he adds sneakily, “Oh, and Dean too.”

Dean flushes and sends him a betrayed look. Maybe he can save the piss-drunk Dean stories for when Cas isn’t around.

But Cas doesn’t take the obvious cheap shot at Dean, something he appreciates. “Sounds like it was quite the night.” 

Feeling slightly grateful, Dean puffs out and addresses Cas, “Trust me, the next day was even more fun. Had to dig up her dumb dog from the backyard. With the worst hangover I’ve ever had to this day.”

Cas’s eyes widen in surprise- because he’s finally acknowledging him or because of what he just said, Dean’s not sure. He’s busy noticing the crinkles at his eyes. Which he likes. A lot.

Sam snaps him right out of it. “All right, time for me to get some shut-eye.” He pushes himself off the bark and stretches his overgrown arms above his head with a yawn. “You good with the first watch, Dean?”

“Yeah, I’ll come wake you when it’s your turn.” He won’t.

“Maybe Cas can keep you company. Make sure you don’t nod off.”

An awkward silence ensues. Thanks, Sam.

Cas graciously spares him. “Of course, with pleasure.” A smile graces his features.

“Alright, good night.” Sam bumps his shoulder playfully with Dean’s as he brushes past him.

He barely makes it a few meters away before he turns back to them. “Hey, Dean, you should bring Lucy with you. To make the night a little shorter,” he calls out.

Dean senses Cas’s question before it comes.

“Lucy’s my guitar.”

\------------------------

Dean’s fingers land gently on the strings, letting a few stray, airy notes escape. 

“It went something like this.”

A soft guitar thrum emanates, joining the sound of the crackling fire and the other rustles of the night.

“What did?” Cas asks quietly.

The tune continues as Dean replies.

“Their song. They were right in the middle of it when Sam and I...” He lets his voice trail off.

The lyrics he heard back in the barn aren’t coming to him. The dizzy afternoon heat and the scent of dying candles are all he remembers. And the bewitched, vacant expressions of those chanting. Yet his fingers don’t pause. 

_Oh Lord, have mercy_

_On those troubled souls_

_Let them grow from their sins_

_Let them fall to their knees_

Cas looks up at the low sound of Dean’s voice. There’s something different in his gaze, something sorrowful, that Dean can’t get a hold of, leading him to turn his attention back to the instrument below.

The air grows thicker and something swells in his throat, as his voice carries onto the next verse.

_Oh Lord, have pity_

_For we live in truth _

_Keep our houses pure_

_Keep our hearts at peace_

_Take the ones who stray_

_Let our lands be free_

_Keep the wolves away _

_And your grace will be_

_Guide us to the gates_

_Down our tumblin’ path_

_Through the mountains, through the willows_

_Through the darkness, through the night_

The tune comes to an abrupt end, as if the rest hasn’t been written yet. 

A newfound silence settles between them. Dean keeps his eyes cast downwards, where his worn-out boots reveal their tears in the firelight. It probably wouldn’t hurt to invest in some new ones next time they cross civilization. Make Sam get some too. And Cas. He can’t tell whether the leather on his feet was once black, or if it’s always been this tawny shade of maroon.

He scratches at his throat. When he looks up, Cas is right where he left him, his legs outstretched, back slumped against a tree, and his eyes trained watchfully on him.

He contemplates how to break the silence. Thankfully, Cas speaks up before he can make some trivial comment about the nights getting longer.

“It’s quite a beautiful song.”

“Beautiful?” Dean repeats, a little baffled, as he lays the guitar down gently on the ground and wipes the sweat off his brows with the back of his hand. “I don’t know, man. More like haunting, no?”

“It can be both, can’t it?”

Dean considers it for a moment before he’s reminded of what had meant to follow the chant. A few minutes late and they would have walked into a house of corpses. A charged shudder runs through him.

He gets to his feet and rubs his palms roughly on his jeans.

“Christ, I need a drink,” he says, to either Cas or himself.

He hears Cas shuffle while he shakes his leg, attempting to get rid of the knot in his knee. He bends down to grab the guitar neck.

“You planning to sleep here?” he asks Cas, the corner of his eye watching him shimmy closer to the grass.

“Yes, this position is comfortable enough for me.”

“On the ground?” Dean scoffs in disbelief as he straightens up. “You trying to catch death or something?”

Cas tilts his head slightly. “What’s wrong with the ground?”

“It’s goddam cold is what it is,” Dean replies, his hands gesturing accusingly towards the ground. “That’s what bedrolls are for, you dumbass,” he adds, but there’s no heat to it.

“Oh.” Cas’s brows raise faintly in understanding. There’s no trace of annoyance or anger showing, as if the insult just flew over him.

Dean sighs and throws him a hopeless look. “Alright, wait here, preacher. I’ll fix you a cot from the horses.”

Cas moves as if to get up as well. “There’s no need to. I can find-”

Dean stops him with a hand. “Just sit down. I’ll be right back,” he tells him. “Man probably don’t even know what a bedroll looks like,” he mutters as he turns away, loud enough for Cas to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 coming tomorrow!

Dean doesn’t pretend to know anything about paradise, pearly gates and the whole shebang, but if he had to go out on a limb, he figures it’d come pretty close to this. Wide, open countryside as far as the eye can see. Cool weather, a few foam-white clouds rolling over the mountains in the horizon and softening the harsher rays of sunlight, joined by the occasional fresh breeze. And crowning it all off, a tea-tinted lake where healthy bass leave delicate ripples on the otherwise calm surface. No matter how it ends for him, he’ll always have this.

His neglected fishing pole rests against the fallen cedar trunk beneath him, while he stares dazedly in the distance. The absolute serenity almost makes him forget about Cas’s presence.

Like Dean, his head seems elsewhere and there’s no effort made from his side to start a conversation. He’s perched by the shore, where his long trench coat is making him seem taller than he is. The ruse isn’t enough to fool Dean, whose past few days have been spent observing him, inwardly jotting down his features, his ticks, his patterns of speech. Dean would call it creepy except he felt he’d gotten way past that.

Cas had tacitly agreed to stick around and neither Bobby, Sam nor him had asked ‘How long?’ Which was fine by Dean, since not knowing when they would part ways made him believe they might not after all. Great coping mechanism, right?

Cas had easily blended in with the rest of their merry little band. People liked that helping out was a second nature to him, it made him approachable. They’d come to him about injuries, to ask if this herb or that berry was edible, and once Dean thought he’d passively overhead someone wonder if Cas would listen to their confession. As far as Dean could tell, Cas genuinely wanted to lend a hand.

Like Bobby, he also had an innate gift for storytelling, though his stories never tended to be as crude as Bobby’s, preferring heartfelt fables over deadly shootouts in the pit of the night. Though Dean was aware his stories of youthful naivety were not meant for him, he couldn’t help but listen in, enraptured as if he’d lived the tale himself. He was indistinguishable from any other kid around him, eagerly watching Cas with his head bowed, distractedly rubbing his palms together, about to lift his gaze and launch steadily into another tale.

Cas isn’t doing anything special, not really. That’s the thing. He just belongs. And Dean likes that, as simple as it sounds. He goes along with the plan, even when the plan is to partner up with Dean on a fishing adventure when he has no idea how to tie a hook to a line himself.

Remembering why they’re out here in the first place, Dean rolls his shoulders back and slaps his hands exaggeratedly on his worn-out jeans.

“All right, break’s over. Time for class, Cas.” He smiles boyishly at his own rhyme.

There’s no reluctant protest from Cas, who comes to hover at his side when Dean beckons him closer. 

Cas nods solemnly. “I’m ready.”

Dean grins. “Relax, padre. I’m not teaching you how to shoot today. We’re just fishing.”

“Oh. I thought we were going to shoot the fish,” Cas replies disappointedly.

Dean barks out a laugh as he pushes himself up. He’s starting to get a sense of Cas’s offbeat humour. 

Squeezing Cas’ shoulder unnecessarily, he tells him, “We sleep and shit in the dirt, but we’re not savages, Cas.”

An easy, lopsided smile forms on Cas’s lips. They let their eyes rest on each other for a beat. This close, Dean can discern every line adorning his face and the fading trace of a shaving scar on his cheek, partly concealed by a healthy tan and a few days old stubble. Dean feels an urge to lay a palm on his cheek and brush his thumb over the spot, but he quashes the urge the instant he becomes conscious of it and breaks off the contact.

“C’mon, let’s get started,” he says, his eyes sliding away from Cas. 

A few pebbles rattle softly as Dean pulls out the sunk-in pole handle.

When he turns back to Cas, he realizes that whatever moment transpired between them is over. Cas’s crease between his brows is back and he looks ready for battle again. 

He nods his head. “Let’s.”

Dean joins Cas’ side, shoulder to shoulder, but careful not to let them touch. The height difference is subtle but it’s there, the slant of Dean’s shoulder cascading naturally into Cas’s. It can’t be more than a few inches, Dean estimates, before forcing his mind back on the task at hand.

“All right. Step one. The three pillars of fishing.” He raises his free hand and one finger lifts on command at each of the following words. “Location. Bait. Gear.”

Cas’s eyes squint and he repeats slower, “Location. Bait. Gear. Got it.”

Dean licks at his lips. He’s liking this docile Cas way more than he should. But hey, he doesn’t get to have fun every day, so might as well enjoy it when he can.

“Next is step two; tying the hook and the bait to the line. Lucky for you, I’ve already done the hard part. Now, your job is just to hold it just like that,” he shows off his hands on the reel and the rod, letting Cas get a good look at it. “All good?" 

Cas doesn’t reply. His sky-blue eyes are fixed wide open on Dean’s hands.

He blinks rapidly when the handle is jammed into his hands.

“There you go. Piece of pie, right?”

Cas’s brows shoot upwards. “Where?”

Dean shakes his head, the corners of his mouth curling up. “Just focus on your grip.” He ushers Cas with a guiding palm on his arm. “Raise your right hand a bit more there.”

Cas complies wordlessly but it still doesn’t look right to Dean. He _could_ slide Cas’s hands up himself. Hand on hand action. Not exactly the most scandalous thing. He doubts even the most disgruntled Puritan would raise an eyebrow. He’s only trying to teach a man how to fish, for god’s sake. Why is he overthinking this so damn much?

“I’m holding it precisely the way you showed me, Dean.”

Any hesitance Dean had about helping Cas leaves right out the door as he recognizes a not-so-subtle tinge of annoyance laced in his tone. With a coarse hand, probably much coarser than the hands of a preacher, he reaches for his wrist and circles it loosely with his fingers.

If Cas is startled, he doesn’t let it show, and instead regards Dean like he’s waiting for him to get on with it.

So Dean does. Gently, he presses down his thumb on Cas’s skin and smooths his hold upwards on the wood until it looks like how he’d hold it himself. “There,” he says, satisfied. 

It takes him a few belated seconds to realize he’s still holding Cas’s wrist. He lets go, but not before giving it an awkward squeeze.

Smooth, Winchester. Very smooth. 

\------------------------

When the sun starts descending behind round peaks, they’re still out there, by the water, with its liquid glaze now oscillating between a warm brown and orangey red. Despite their seemingly still surroundings, they’re sharing the lake with a discrete company, which gradually joined them as the hours passed by. Dark birds, their bill a small shield of white, drift idly on the surface, occasionally ducking underwater to peck at something. American coots, Cas had said, noticing Dean eyeing the birds. Turns out, Cas had a secret talent for recognizing birds, even when they remained cautiously out of sight. At a low-rumbling call, Cas had murmured “King rail” to Dean, as if afraid of being overhead by the bird in question.

To be honest, Dean would have been content listening to Cas name birds and other creatures all night long. Once night truly fell, he’d continue pointing out stars and constellations to Cas, an endeavour started during their last night watch, and insist that every good cowboy knew how to use them for guidance, relaying what his dad had taught him decades ago to the best of his memory. But Dean knew they had to return to camp eventually, before their absence became a source of worry.

With a sigh, he heaves himself off the fallen trunk, feeling a strange pang of affection for the resting chunk of wood, having spent the remainder of the afternoon sharing it with Cas, once the other had come to terms with the stark realization that he wasn’t cut out for the fine art of fishing. The one catch he’d managed had been a minuscule catfish, four or so inches too short to be worth it. Dean had felt Cas’s relief when they’d let it go and watched it swim back to its merry life and fish family.

Although they’ll come back empty-handed and raise a few eyebrows, it doesn’t feel like it was a waste of time, at least not to Dean. Part of him hopes he’s not alone in this. 

Casting one last wistful look towards the lake, he hardens himself, getting ready to tell Cas the fun’s over. 

But Cas, still seated on the pealing bark, speaks up before he can. “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

Cas fiddles with his fingers, and folds his palms together before tucking them between his knees. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Sensing Cas’s hesitance, or maybe uneasiness, Dean frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid I’ve disappointed you,” he says, lowering his head.

Confusion spreads inside Dean. Even as he racks his brain over memories of the past few days, he can’t think of a moment when he’s stringed the words Cas and disappointment together.

As he’s about to ask Cas what he’s talking about, he’s hit with a glimpse of understanding. “Hey man, it’s okay. Trust me, we all suck the first time,” he tells Cas with a shrug. “But the more you fish, the better you’ll get. Plus, it’s not like we’re close to starvation. We can survive a few more days without fish. For some ungodly reason, we still have like twenty freakin’ cans of peaches left. So, uh, no need to feel bad and apologize and all that.”

He looks at Cas, expecting his shoulders to uncoil. But while Cas lifts his head and lets out an amused breath, the wary expression stays. He shakes his head. “Thank you, Dean. For umm... your encouragements about my fishing capabilities. But I, I was referring to something else.” He exhales deeply before continuing, “More specifically, about what I told you about my, ah, my plans."

Oh.

“You mean your crusade?”

Cas’s frown deepens. The subject had been safely buried since first brought up, after it had led their talk to take a sour turn. Dean had happily let it rest and focused on what mattered the most instead. Guiding their groups to safety. Keeping them alive. He hadn’t forgotten, just shoved it at the back of his mind until now. 

“It’s not what I would call it.”

Dean crosses his arms with a shrug. “It doesn’t really matter what you choose to call it, does it? Crusade. Revenge. Or justice.” He pauses. “They’re just different sides of the same coin.”

“Dean, I understand how wrong my intentions might appear to you. Especially now, now that I know what kind of men you and your brother are-" 

“What kind of men? What does that mean, Cas?”

“You’re good.” At Dean’s dismissive scoff, Cas rises from his spot and advances towards him. “You don’t believe me?" 

Dean stands his ground, jaw locked. “If you’re lookin’ for a saint, Cas, it ain’t me.”

Cas stops a few inches from Dean, lines of faint consternation pressed above his brows. “I know you have faith in the people around you. In your brother and Bobby. So why don’t you have that same faith in yourself?”

As expected, Dean’s first instinct is to tell Cas to fuck off. Harsh and pissed comes a lot easier than anything else. But he reigns it in, not willing to spoil everything he’s built with Cas so far. Cas means no harm, no matter how blunt he can be, and Dean doesn’t want to be a dick.

Moving past Cas, he mutters a quick “Whatever you say,” and crouches by the fishing equipment they’d carried here, hoping to subtly mark the end of this conversation. 

“In any case, I’m sorry if I let you down.”

Dean sighs, realizing how foolish it was to hope Cas would pick up on social cues.

“Look, man. You didn’t let me down, because I’d just met you that day, okay?” Dean drops the rod and the lure sachet defeatedly and gets up again. He looks at Cas, his lowered shoulders and his cheerless expression. Resisting the urge to reach out, he falls back on words instead. “You wanna ride gung-ho halfway across the country looking for a bunch of sons of bitches, hoping it’s gonna change anything, then go for it. Like I said, I ain’t the one to judge.”

Cas takes a moment to process, his eyes narrowed at Dean, as if puzzled by his words.

Dean stays quiet, he’s been clear enough.

Cas opens his mouth and hesitates, his eyes glancing down then back up to Dean. “Then, does this mean we’re... good? You and I?”

“Yeah, that’s what it means, Cas,” Dean replies with a nod. 

Suddenly, the tension dissipates and they both let out a breath. With a small shock, Dean takes sight of their fading shadows, the sun now mostly blotted out by the distant hills. Feeling a twilight chill brush at his neck, he remembers they’re supposed to be at least halfway back to camp by now.

He claps his hands once, clearing the air for good. “Alright, now that that’s done, let’s go. No need to shake on it and all that. Better hurry or Sam is gonna chew off my head when we get back. And by chew off, I mean nag at me ‘til I regret it to the core of my soul." 

Dean frowns when Cas doesn’t move. Maybe they’re not good after all. 

“Actually, shouldn’t we shake hands? To make it, umm, official?” Cas asks hesitantly.

Dean blinks in surprise at the strange request. But why not. If a handshake is what it takes to appease Cas, then he’ll gladly do it.

“Yeah, sure Cas.” Dean lets out a grin and steps towards him. “Let’s shake on it.”

After wiping his hands on his jeans, he reaches out for Cas’s extended one. They shake once, and before Dean is fully aware of what’s happening, he feels Cas pull him closer, both hands clasping his back, until they’re pressed together, ear to ear and toe to toe. Cas’s chin burrows softly into his shoulder. His warm weight settles over Dean. Still half-stunned, he wraps his arms around Cas, keeping him pressed closed.

It’s nice but it’s weird. 

Cas is weird.

Dean doesn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!! :) This chapter was really fun to write! Comments are much appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Thanks for sticking with it :D  
I was stuck on it for so long, and even gave up on it for a few months, until magically my motivation and inspiration reappeared and allowed me to finish it in almost one go!

It takes them two whole weeks to reach the vestiges of the forgotten Civil War fort Bobby had told them about. At first sight, its decrepit state, from patchy masonry to rotting timber structures, both fighting a losing battle with wild weeds and weirdly-textured moss, raises several questions. How much combat has this thing withstood? And how is any part of it still standing?

At second glance, it doesn’t look much better. Heaps of stony rubble, remnants of structured defences, and lonely bricks that catch at Dean’s feet, getting a curse out of him before he catches his balance again. His eyes linger on stray cigarettes littered here and there, probably by some guys who thought they’d save a few bucks skipping the town supply store and heading here instead.

But it hadn’t been recently. No boot or horse tracks in his immediate sight, and none that had led up to here. _Good. _The fort was theirs to claim. Or at least what was left of it.

Like some kind of psychic, or like the little brother who grew up beside him, Sam says with a grin, “Finders keepers?”

He’s standing with one hand on his hip, the other shielding his eyes from the midday sun as he watches Dean walk up to him. 

Dean throws him his proudest smile. “Damn straight."

In sync, they take a sweeping look at their surroundings, and what’s to become a home for their rescuees, many of whom Dean can now call friends. Charlie, the bubbly red-head. Jo and Ellen, the former, eager to prove herself and the latter, eager to protect the first. Kaia and Claire, the teenage do-it all duo, as Dean likes to call them. And Garth, officially rechristened as the “bear hug guy” by Dean, Sam and Bobby, the main targets of his overt affection.

And then there’s Cas. Although technically not rescued like the others, Dean has taken him under his wing anyway.

Dean spots him perched on top of what must have been a shoulder-high rampart, his bare feet dangling, kicking the air lightly to some silent rhythm. His head is tipped towards the sky in contemplation, showcasing a taut stretch of skin extend between the roots of his wind-mussed hair and collarless white shirt.

For a moment, Dean wonders at his vision’s advanced ability to zero-in on Cas no matter the situation nor the crowd.

He blinks rapidly and swerves his attention back to Sam. 

“Truth be told, it’s not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

Sam stifles a laugh. “What? Didn’t trust Bobby?”

“More like didn’t trust Texas weather to leave it standing for that long.”

Dean drops into a crouch and takes hold of the polished-looking rock that caught his eye. Rubbing his thumb over the smooth black surface, he lets a dusty breeze sweep by, pulling slightly at the frayed rim of his hat. 

Sam looks down at him, the corners of his mouth lifted in a hopeful smile. “I guess we got lucky for once.”

Hearing a familiar trudge come up behind him, Dean’s free hand flies above his head to readjust the rounded brim of his hat before he hoists himself up again.

“It ain’t over and done yet, son.”

Turning around, Dean’s unruffled to find a rugged-looking Bobby, his worn flat cap a spot-on reflection of the man himself. Life on the road had never suited him. He’d always been more comfortable in his cabin up north, helping the bounty hunters and outlaws he could tolerate, and where he was able to lie in a real bed at night instead of a thin bedroll. A bedroll which would drive him towards an early lumbago-related death, he liked to remind them daily. 

Grinning, Dean pats him on the back and herds him to his side.

Sam’s eyes twinkle in amusement. “We know Bobby, but at least we got this far.”

Dean claps his hand on Bobby’s back again. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

“I couldn’t let you boys handle all this on your own,” Bobby huffs out. “A big job like this, you needed all the help you could get.”

“Sure we did,” Dean agrees amiably as he lets go of Bobby before the other starts grumbling. “And it is pretty much done and over with. We got them here. We didn’t get any of Nick’s psychos tracking them down and tryin’ something. Which means they either gave up or their bubble finally burst and they realized the type of cockroach they’d been following. Personally, I’d put my money on the first one.” He adds, with an approving nod, “We made some good time.” He pauses and catches Sam’s eyes conspiratorially. “Anyway, Sam and me have got some beaches to get to, don’t we Sammy?”

The flash of hesitation in Sam’s eyes comes as a surprise blow to him. He gets the hollow feeling they might not saddle up and ride towards the distant sunset just yet.

“What?” Dean asks, conveying as much irritation as one possibly can solely through one word. His jaw clenched, he watches his brother hover and hesitate, like a giant vertical seesaw.

As he’s about to tell him to just spit out, Sam finally fesses up. “It’s just...” he casts his eyes downwards before looking up hopefully at Dean, “maybe we could stay here for a bit? I mean, Bobby’s kinda right, we’re not done watching out for them yet. Just look around us, they don’t even have roofs over their head!”

Dean knows this deadly blend of puppy-eyes and passionate plea. He’s seen it a thousand times, both as a witness and the receiving end. It’s the one that means Sam has something close to his heart and doesn’t want to let go. It tells him Sam’s gotten more attached to their runaway group than he should have.

Dean sighs painfully, cringing at his own words before they even come out. “You know we can’t, Sam. That’s not how we do things.”

Sam throws him a defiant glare. “Why not?”

Dean’s transported back to Sam’s teenage years, when second-guessing Dad’s orders was his favourite past time. It doesn’t feel great. And for a split-second, Dean experiences a burst of resentment towards Bobby, who’s been conspicuously silent through all this, forcing Dean to take the brunt of Sam’s frustration for acting like the rational one.

“Look,” Dean starts as coolly as he can, “you know what was Dad’s second most important rule: never lay your cot twice on the same ground.”

He refrains himself from placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Unlike Impala, it might set him off more than anything else.

“And what was the first?” Sam shoots back.

“To watch out for you.”

Sam shuts his mouth in a stunned, narrow line while Bobby uses this brief respite to retreat tactfully.

A headache presses its way up at the back of Dean’s neck. Fighting with Sam has always felt like running headfirst into a brick wall and attempting to take it down bare-handed.

“Dad’s been dead for years, Dean,” Sam breathes, words stripped of any previous combativeness. “We don’t have to follow his orders anymore.”

He takes a step forward and stops himself.

Dean looks away brusquely. “Like you ever did.”

Sam doesn’t reply.

After a beat, Dean hears him let out a disappointed sigh and walk away.

He releases the breath he’s been holding. Within his palm is the small rock, now warm to his touch, which he squeezes one last time before letting it drop in a light _clink_.

Rubbing a hand over his stubble, he takes a roaming glance around, eyes unfocused yet searching, until he catches sight of Cas, whose own gaze is fixed unperturbedly on Dean. 

In a heartbeat, Dean sets off towards him.

\------------------------

“Howdy, partner,” Dean greets in his best nonchalant voice, tipping his hat towards Cas.

Cas doesn’t buy it for one second.

“Everything alright?” he asks in a low voice. He’s stopped kicking his feet.

Dean fidgets in place. Having Cas peer down at him like that makes him feel like he’s been cornered by the local sheriff.

How did he even get up there, anyway? The rampart’s too tall to climb up in one go.

The thought of Cas getting a boost from someone makes him grin for some reason.

Cas cuts through Dean’s musing. “Dean?”

“I’m fine, Cas,” he brushes away with a wave of his hand. “Tell me, you got some wings hidden under that trench coat?”

Cas cocks his head in a familiar tilt before his eyes widen in silent understanding. “Oh. Behind me. There’s some loose stones.”

Dean makes his way around Cas and clicks his tongue when he finds a sandy mountain of brittle bricks, collapsed in the middle and marked by a solitary boot-print. No wings, then. 

Bracing his hands on top of the wall, and feeling Cas’s eyes on him, he attempts to pull himself up in one go. Halfway up, he lets out a prolonged grunt as he tries to heave his body up the rest of the way. Three seconds later, his arm muscles are about ready to snap in two. Damn it- he should have practiced this before trying to show off.

Out of nowhere, he feels a force grip him tightly and haul his ass up.

Breathing harshly, Dean looks down at the fabric of his shirt clenched between Cas’s fist. Another hand is hot below his shoulder, keeping him solidly balanced while he finishes catching his breath. There’s sweat pearling at his brows and behind his ears. Getting old sucks.

After a minute, Dean’s cooled down enough for him to grin in thanks to Cas.

“Thanks for that. Gotta remember I’m not twenty anymore.”

Apparently reassured that Dean isn’t going to keel over, Cas lets go of him gently. A pair of denim inches apart, they’re sitting close enough anyway that either one could keep the other from falling.

“It took me a few tries as well,” Cas admits.

Dean chuckles. “I figured.”

With a smile, Cas rolls his shoulders back lazily while stretching his neck. He’s as relaxed as Dean’s ever seen him. Cas has always seemed relaxed on the surface, exuding some kind of ‘cool and collected’ aura around himself, like there’s a plan out there and he’s following it without having to try. But there was usually a reserved edge to it, reminding him of what Cas had lost and what he still has to lose. That edge looks like it’s rubbed off somehow.

“I have something that might cheer you up,” Cas says.

“Oh yeah? Did you find some fancy gut warmer under those bricks?”

Cas twists away from Dean to fish something out of his trench’s long pockets. When he turns back to Dean again, he presents the can in his hands like a gold digger showing off his findings. 

Cas rotates the can slowly to gradually reveal the label. “Better.”

“Whoa. Are those...?”

“Canned apricots, yes.”

His hands seize the can from Cas before he knows what they’re doing.

“How...” he starts, but his mind goes off-track, lost in awe at the tinned treasure within his palms. Mouth dry, he tears his eyes away and looks up to the other object of his devotion. “Where’d you even get this? I thought all we had was peaches and peaches and peaches.”

Cas’ smile widens and he looks at Dean with an expression that resembles fondness, but probably isn’t that. “So did I. But Claire expressed to me that she was feeling lightheaded yesterday after coming back from hunting. I was looking for something with some sugar for her to eat when I stumbled onto this.”

“So really I should be thanking Claire?”

“Well I suppose that if you look at it from a providential perspective-” A look of realization, followed by an annoyed tick at the corner of his mouth, dawns on Cas’s face. “You’re messing with me.”

“Man, you’re getting better at this. I’m gonna have to learn some new tricks.”

Cas throws him a look which says both “try me” and “why did God put me on this green earth just to endure this” at the same time. Dean takes it as a win.

The combined elation at the thought of eating something else than freakin’ canned peaches and the fact that Cas knew how happy it’d make him pushes Dean to cross some invisible boundary; he places his hand on Cas’s knee. “Nah, but seriously, thanks Cas.”

He braces himself for Cas to react in some way, to brush it off with a joke or scoot away from him, but nothing breaks. Cas acknowledges the hand on his knee with a flicking glance, his expression not betraying anything and Dean can’t tell if what courses through him is disappointment or relief. 

“I’m glad I could be of help,” Cas says earnestly.

As Dean looks into the clear blue of Cas’s eyes, all he wonders is what will happen when Cas leaves. How can he feel the loss already when the warm denim beneath his fingers is a solid reminder of his presence?

He takes in a breath before he tells Cas, “I hope you’ve still got some of that good Samaritan spirit within you because we’re gonna need you for a while longer. Sam says we gotta fix this place up a little before we can stick a fork in it.”

The second it takes for Cas to answer stretches like eternity. “Of course.”

Dean is going to build the best fucking settlement he can, no matter how long it takes, and here’s to hoping it takes a long fucking time.

\------------------------

A long fucking time turns out to be a measly four weeks. That’s it.

The first days start off slow; chopping trees, gathering building supplies and food from the closest town, Horseshoe Hollow, about an hour’s ride away from camp. In the beginning, maybe a third of the camp really gets into it, the rest too content to finally be catching a break to switch back to busy mode. It takes them three days to start feeling guilty (or maybe catch the not so-subtle death glares from those toiling away) and roll up their sleeves.

A week in, even the smaller kids begin pitching in where they can, pulling out weeds and making two-way trips around camp getting people the stuff they need, one brick or one log at a time.

The second week, wooden structures supported by repurposed bricks emerge out of the ground, like trees sprouting out of paved roads. Pretty soon, they’re joined by boarded floors and planked walls, just waiting for the sturdy beams that’ll keep them dry when the rain comes.

Dean is tempted to order Garth and Bobby to slow down the third week when he notices them fix a door to one of the cabins, a sense of quiet anguish brewing inside him.

By the fourth week, Dean has to admit defeat. There are only so many camp add-ons he can contrive before Sam starts getting suspicious. He’d jumped at Charlie’s idea to make a chicken coop from scratch, even though they were in possession of a grand total of zero chickens. Two days ago, he’d berated Sam for saying that an ammunitions and weapons cabin “wasn’t that essential” since “they were trying to fit in and start fresh and not rebuild a military fort”.

Now, he’s sweating buckets despite the chillier fall weather, as he hammers nails into a curved and polished length of wood on top of an otherwise finished pew, trying his damndest not to strike his fingers. Each clear _chink _of his hammer emits a spark of satisfaction at doing something so manual. He’d forgotten how good it felt to work with his hands.

The body of the final nail sunk into the top, Dean blows away the stray wood shavings and gets up to contemplate his work. The cap rail he just fixed looks right at home, blending seamlessly with the back of the pew. With a smile he can’t contain, he smooths his hand over the rail, feeling an urge to pull his knife out and carve his initials into it. 

If you’d asked him a week ago if building a church for a community who’d almost gulped down lethal ale to find ‘the greater truth’ or whatever bullshit Nick had fed them, his answer would have been some vehement variant of “hell no”. If you barely make it out of a whirlpool, you don’t jump back into it the next day. That was just pure common sense.

Common sense that had gone astray one late evening, when he’d heard Cas recite hushed prayers alone in his tent. Dean had stood by the tent flaps in silence, listening, eyes downcast, to thankful words and modest hopes ushered in a low tone, hearing his own name crop up unexpectedly. A few months back, his voice would have echoed in an edifice much greater than the sagging confines of his tent, and would have carried through the aisles to reach his parish, maybe his friends and other smiling familiar faces. It had hit Dean. What did he have now? A shabby piece of tarp to serve as a thin layer between the ground and his knees, given to him by Dean. Acquaintances made at the close of summer when fall is just now letting itself known. People like Dean who keep asking more and more out of him, when he wants nothing more than to get back out on the road and pass judgement.

So the church is... well it’s Dean’s meagre attempt to say thank you without having his lips do the work. Even though neither of them will get a lot of use out of it- they both have big plans after all, don’t they- Dean hopes Cas will like the gesture. 

Part of him thinks he better, as he continues admiring his handiwork, clammy hands resting on his hips. He hasn’t put that much sweat into anything in a long time.

“Not bad, old man,” Claire chimes in over his shoulder right before he gives in to the urge to whistle at an inanimate object. Thank god. She never would have let him live that one down.

Shaking his head disapprovingly, Dean turns to Claire and props his arms lazily on the bench behind him.

“Hey, guess who won’t be young forever.”

“Good thing you won’t be around I’m not,” she quips back with a smirk. 

His smile drops comically and he pushes her shoulder lightly. “I don’t have one foot in the grave just yet.”

“I know,” she groans, rolling her eyes for good measure while shoving a roguish blonde curl behind her ear. “That’s not all I meant anyway.”

Right. Him. Leaving.

From the way her words hang, it’s clear she’s expecting some kind of answer from him, despite her obvious efforts to avoid his gaze and her eyes remaining stubbornly fixed on some distant point to her left.

“You’ll be fine without us, kiddo. I’ve seen you handle that Colt.” When that doesn’t appear to work, he adds, “Plus, anyone who tries to get you will have to go through Kaia’s knife first." 

Her arms cross against her chest. Still no good. But at this point there’s not much else he can say. Staying’s not an option. 

Dean scratches at his throat. “Help me carry this thing inside.”

Despite the small sigh she lets out, Claire goes to kneel at the other end of the pew.

“Ready?” Dean prompts when they’re both in position.

“Uh-huh.”

“On three. One. Two. Three!”

Dean lets out a curse when his foot almost misses a step as they make their way up the short flight of stairs marking the entrance to the miniature church. Really, the church is more of an elongated bare room right now, with two carved out windows in the back and a finely carved cross resting against one of the walls, waiting patiently to be hung up. The floor’s creaking follows them until they stop halfway into the room.

“All right, let’s set her down here gently,” Dean instructs. He refuses to get a scratch or a dent in this thing before Cas has even gotten a chance to see it.

As soon as its carved legs have safely landed on the floor, Dean sinks down into the pew and the back of his hand flies up to swipe the sweat off his brows. If only this thing had pillows or a blanket, he’d just kick back and catch a snooze here until sundown. Or maybe sunrise, why not.

His eyes falls to where Claire taps her foot repeatedly. She’s looking down at him as if waiting to be formally dismissed.

“You gonna pass out on me or can I go?”

“I’m fine.” Her mouth quirks up at Dean’s hands shooing her away. “Go, go.”

He hears Claire leave, rather than seeing her do so. The hardwood creeks accusingly under the sole of her brand new boots until it doesn’t. Then three short successive cracks follow, as she presumably hops down the tiny staircase. And then nothing but the faint echoes of lively conversations unfolding outside the church walls.

Inside, it’s just Dean and the quiet.

He takes in the distressed leather covering his feet. They’d never gotten around to grabbing a new pair after all. Guess it would have to wait a little bit longer.

As if his spine is suddenly unclenched, Dean slumps forward and clasps his hands between his knees. For the first time since stepping inside the church, he notices the trapped heat, the way his shirt sticks to his back, the stale air he breathes in.

He laces his fingers together, and makes his thumbs rub at the joints. The sensation is welcome, but the distraction it offers is momentary. In a few seconds, his mind careens back to Claire’s finger twirling in her hair. The finger expands and tans, as the light lock of hair being played with caramelizes into a rich brown color. Cas pushes the annoying stray back behind his ear. His blue eyes widen and he leans towards-

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. What the hell is he thinking? Inside a church of all places. Not that he cares but still. They built it for Cas, not for Dean to have a hideout to daydream about him.

That’s _right_, he’s in a church.

Dean huffs out at what he’s about to do, rubbing his palms together before he immobilises them, holding them pressed together from wrist to fingertips.

“Alright... are you there, God? Are you, hmm, listening?”

No reply.

No surprise there.

Dean puffs out an amused breath. “Am I doing it wrong, is that it? Am I supposed to get down on my knees and say Amen? I’m sorta new to this so I’m gonna need You to be kind of lenient this time if that’s okay. I, uhm...” He rakes his throat. It sounds incredibly loud to his own ears. “I’m at a crossroads here. Either I follow the plan or I don’t. If I do... if I do, it’s great. It’s just Sam and me again, toughing it out together no matter what.” He pauses and smiles. “Like it’s supposed to be. But... if I don’t it’s a different story. I’m tied down. Goodbye untraveled roads, goodbye camping under the stars... goodbye adventure. I guess it’ll straighten me out. I bet Cas would like that. Then maybe-“ He stops himself from continuing further down that line. “If You could help me out, that’d be great. Point me in the right direction somehow.”

The silence is his resounding answer.

“Guess You don’t know either, huh?”

His head drops in his hands.

\------------------------

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding the whole day,” a voice breaks through Dean’s stupor.

Dean rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, drawing out a yawn at the same time. The light coming from outside has dimmed, basking the walls inside in an orangey-gold aura.

Dean twists around to find Cas hovering at the church’s entrance, wearing a white button-down shirt over a pair of dark jeans. “Had to take a break after all that hard work.” He taps the spot of pew next to him. “Why don’t you come try it out?”

Cas nods. “Gladly.”

He plops down at Dean’s side. Dean watches him shift for a full minute before settling on a final position.

“Everything okay?” Dean asks in a mixture of confusion and amusement.

Cas takes a second to reply. “Oh. I was just trying it out, like you asked.”

That brings a grin to Dean’s mouth. Feeling daring, he settles his arm on top of the pew and bends slightly into Cas’s space. “And? What’s the final verdict?”

“It’s beautiful. I can see, no, I can feel the craftsmanship that went into it. _Thank you_, Dean.”

Losing some of his previous bravado, Dean slides back towards his side of the pew, but lets his arm stay where it is.

He waves his free hand at Cas. “Pshh, it was nothing. No biggie, honestly. Barely took me any time. So no need to thank me, really.”

He should have left it at a simple _You’re welcome_.

Thankfully, Cas senses Dean’s awkwardness and lets it slide, gracefully moving on to an easier topic of discussion, such as the beautiful sunset occurring outside or the fact that they’re running low on lamp oil.

Of course, this doesn’t actually happen. As much as Cas has gotten better at getting Dean’s jokes and returning the favour, mastering the intricate art of ‘reading the room’ is something which still escapes him more often than not. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe Cas is simply the bluntest man Dean has ever met. Either way, there’s no getting out of this for Dean.

“Dean, it’s clear this must have taken hours and hours of work,” Cas admonishes. “A _thank you_ is the least I can do.”

Dean sighs. Playing it cool really didn’t work out for him.

“Okay. Thanks, Cas. What I meant is that I didn’t mind doing it.”

“I see,” Cas says slowly. “Is that because you were making it for me?”

Dean freezes. “Well, I was doing it for everyone here. But yeah I guess you’re the one who might end up using it the most,” he ends with a shrug.

“And I suppose you won’t get to enjoy any of your efforts since you’ll be gone.”

Dean’s stomach drops at the slight accusation in his tone, but he plasters on a smile and says, “That’s okay. Like I said, I didn’t do it for me.”

Cas’s expression doesn’t change. “Admit it. You don’t want to leave.”

“It’s not about what I want.” Dean snaps back. He regrets it instantly and tries to continue more coolly. “It’s about... it’s about me spending my whole life drifting from town to town. It’s about me not knowing any other way to live.”

Cas responds abruptly. “Then how have you been living this past month?”

Dean shoots up from the pew. He eyes the golden sliver of light escaping from the door, barely left ajar by Cas. He turns back to him. “That was different. I always knew it was gonna be temporary."

Turning his back to Cas, Dean paces to the unhung cross. There are delicate flowers etched on each end, with their interlaced roots, or maybe vines, meeting in the middle to form a diamond-shaped blossom. No engraving is needed to disclose the author behind the piece.

Dean runs his fingers over the carvings and says, “Where is this coming from? You’re leaving too.”

“I’m not." 

Dean’s hand stops over one of the central petals and falls back to his side.

He turns to Cas. “What? Since when?”

“I decided the first week after our arrival here,” Cas says evenly.

“What?” Dean repeats idiotically. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want my decision to influence yours in any way. I wanted the choice to be your own, so I waited. But now I see that that might take longer than I had suspected.”

“I don’t get it- what about those bastards who went after your church?”

“I’m letting them go.”

“What?” It’s the only word he knows at this point. “After what you said about not letting bad people get away with doing bad things? And you needing to do this?”

Cas gets up on his feet. He takes a step towards Dean then stops.

Dean frowns. “What is it?”

“I- I still believe in the things I said that day. They need to be caught and punished.” He hesitates. “But not by me.”

Dean stares at Cas. “So what made you change your mind?”

Cas doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he comes to Dean’s side and lies his back against the wall.

Dean lets the silence sit.

When Cas finally speaks up, it drowns out all other sounds. The floor doesn’t creak anymore. The muffled commotion from outside dies off. Dean can only perceive Cas’s voice. “There was a little girl, a girl from my congregation, who was inside the church when it collapsed due to the fire.” He takes in a breath. “But there was so much smoke- she might have already been gone by then.”

Dean can’t speak.

“She came very often to visit. After a while, I realized why- she loved lighting the candles. We had dozens inside. It saved me quite a lot of time. To reward her good work, I started giving her a few cents every time she came by. Of course I felt responsible for what happened. I still do.” Dean’s heart drops at the crack in his voice. “I would have felt responsible even if I hadn’t been encouraging her to visit. The church... the church was my home, but I would have rebuilt it. My parish would have helped me rebuild it. She was the one I wanted to do right by.”

Dean reaches for Cas’s shoulder and rubs at the junction above his collarbone. He’s comforting himself as much he’s comforting Cas.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea,” he says quietly.

Cas looks down at the hand on his shoulder then back up to Dean again. “There’s nothing I can change now. Nothing that will bring her back to her family again, at least. But here, I’ve found other ways to redeem myself. And new things,” without pausing, he lifts his arm to rest his hand on Dean’s, still rubbing soothing circles into his skin, “new _people, _I can occupy my mind and my heart with. This place has become my home now.”

“Cas-”

“_Dean._ I want what you want.”

“Trust me, you don’t.” Dean tries to pull away by retrieving his hand but Cas doesn’t let him.

Cas kisses him.

Dean tenses instinctively at the incredible closeness of it all, Cas’s nose suddenly pressed next to his, the tingling sensation caused by his light stubble, the warm lips caressing his. Involuntarily, he emits a soft sound, non-interpretable even to himself. He buries the hand not enclosed in Cas’s into the layer between Cas’s waist and the folds of his shirt. Together, they sway back towards the wall until Cas’s back collides softly with it.

Running out of air, Dean forces himself to pull back. He looks at Cas, whose breathless chest mirrors his. His natural tan helplessly tries to conceal the flush beneath skin. Dean can’t tear his eyes away.

“You’re sure?” Dean pants.

Cas stares back at him, eyes shining behind a curtain of wild bangs. “Only if you are.”

Dean’s almost too giddy to grasp the meaning of Cas’s words, but his expression says enough.

Finding any excuse to touch Cas again, Dean’s hand flies up to brush away one of the strands falling in front of his eyes. “I am.”

With a serene smile, Cas says, “That’s good.”

Dean hums in response, his hand already reaching to cup Cas’s face to pull him in for another lingering kiss.

He chuckles inwardly. Sam is gonna freak out when Dean tells him. And he’ll do it once more when he finds out they’re staying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank youuu for reading through this fic!! Here's hoping you enjoyed it (and that Destiel becomes canon in S15! :p ) You're more than welcome to leave a kudos/comment! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3 This fic is the result of an ongoing obsession of mine (Supernatural) and a more recent obsession (Red Dead Redemption), and me remembering how sexy Cas and Dean looked wearing those cowboy hats in the Tombstone episode! Hopefully you guys liked it, and if you did, don’t hesitate to leave a comment! :)


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